


Mad About the Boy

by Filthy_Bunny



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:05:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filthy_Bunny/pseuds/Filthy_Bunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is in a bad mood at the team's karaoke night. He just wants to get drunk and serenade Callen, but Hetty throws a spanner in the works. One-shot set between 'Past Lives' and 'Missing', season 1. Written with the Dinah Washington recording of 'Mad About the Boy' in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad About the Boy

**Mad About the Boy**

 

 _“I’m feeling quite insane and young again  
And all because I’m mad...  
About the bo-ooooy!” _

Hetty struck a majestic pose, bowed deeply, and descended from the stage to rapturous applause from the entire team.

Or rather, most of the team.

Sam remained firmly planted in his seat, big arms folded resolutely and a frown – perhaps even a pout – on his face as the others ushered Hetty back into the booth.

The last few days had given his mood a serious pounding, as he’d watched Callen struggle with lingering emotional ties to his old alias, Jason Tedrow. Kristin Donnelly, the old flame Sam had witnessed from a distance, may have moved on, and in truth had never been in love with the real Callen to begin with, but seeing G look that way at someone else had come as a heavy blow. Tonight the booze in his system was only adding to the gloom, making him sluggish and ill-tempered. Then when Callen had requested _To All the Girls I Loved Before_ for his karaoke number, it had stung Sam like a slap in the face. But in the bar’s atmosphere of merriment, his surliness had thus far failed to register with his teammates. Now this stunt of Hetty’s heaped further insult upon injury.

“Nicely done,” a particularly red-eared Nate declared, clapping his hands together as Hetty passed. It had been established earlier in the evening, after an ill-advised show of bravado, that Nate and tequila most definitely did not mix, and he was now nursing a beer like most of the others.

“Good choice, Hetty,” said Kensi, tilting her bottle toward the diminutive figure. Hetty squeezed awkwardly past Sam’s legs, which he refused to move, and settled in her chair.

“Of course it’s a good choice,” he muttered gruffly. “It’s a _classic_.” Only Hetty appeared to hear him, and she replied only with one of her customary enigmatic looks. His scowl deepened.

“So, Miss Lange,” asked Callen, leaning forward across the table. “Did you sing that with any particular _boy_ in mind?”

Hetty looked thoughtfully up at the light fittings. “Now that you mention it, I suppose that song will always remind me of my youthful fixation with James Dean. Although it was, of course, allegedly written with Cary Grant in mind.” She waved a hand to dispel this train of thought. “But the real reason I chose it is because it is one of very few songs in the book that are older than I am.”

The others laughed, except for Sam, who glared. “Oh, is _that_ the reason?”

Callen cast a questioning glance in his partner’s direction, but was quickly swept up in a new current of conversation and Sam was ignored once again. After a while he stood up, extricated himself from the crush in the booth and slunk over to the bar. It occurred to him that perhaps he should have gone home as soon as he started to feel this way, but his stubborn urge to drink, sulk, and – if he ever got the opportunity – sing the blues had won out.

He ordered a fresh beer, then a second later called the bartender back to add on a large bourbon. The bartender was young and pretty, and her fall of auburn hair reminded him again of Kristin Donnelly. He decided he didn’t like her.

Sam had just downed the first half of his whiskey when he noticed a small hand grasp the edge of the bar to his right. He turned to see Hetty now perching atop the stool beside him. Glowering, he faced forward again. In his peripheral vision, Hetty gestured to the bartender to fetch another finger of Courvoisier.

A few long minutes stretched out during which Hetty’s cognac arrived and the two of them drank in silence, Sam’s thunderous mood bristling against the almost tangible aura of calm that surrounded Hetty. Eventually, of course, she won that battle.

“I can’t believe you stole my song,” he said finally.

She bowed her head in a gracious gesture. “I apologise, Mr Hanna, for not discussing it with you first,” she said. “But when I saw which song you’d requested, I felt it wise to intervene.”

“Do I really sing that badly?”

“Far from it. It was more the message that concerned me. Or rather, the _timing_.” She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “Sometimes what we most want to express is something that others aren’t quite ready to hear. Just like Noel Coward himself when he wrote the song.

“You have a wonderful nature, Sam. You’re open-minded and accepting of others, and of yourself. That allows you to be truly open around the team. You see no reason to hide who you are or who you care about, an admirable quality.

“However, there are some, like for example our Mr Callen, who have more complex identity issues to work through.” She spoke slowly, choosing her words with characteristic diplomacy. “The events of the last few days have brought up a lot of those issues, and that can put a person in a turbulent emotional state. No matter how well he may hide it.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder at the booth where his colleagues sat, and at Callen, lounging comfortably in his seat and laughing at the heated exchange taking place between Kensi and a very flustered Eric.

“Perhaps it’s best to practice patience for now,” Hetty went on, “Until he’s better equipped to appreciate the kind of honesty you’re offering.”

She held Sam’s eye until at last he let out a sigh and nodded. He reached for his beer and took a long drink before setting the bottle back down on the pocked surface of the bar. He hated always being the stoic one. The one who had to wait.

“You’re right,” he conceded. “But it’s so hard for me to hold back what I’m feeling. I’m not like you and him, I can’t shut things out and just go on with business as usual.” He shook his head in vague disbelief. God, he must _really_ be hammered, discussing his romantic quandary in a karaoke bar with his Operations Officer. Then again, perhaps he was sobering up, because serenading G with _Mad About the Boy_ in front of colleagues and strangers didn’t seem quite as appealing now.

“I know it must be difficult to see him revisiting a past that is uncharted territory to you. And I imagine it is frustrating in the extreme waiting for him to open up about these things,” she said.

“You have no idea,” Sam muttered.

“But don’t forget just how essential you are to Agent Callen. His avoidance doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. Just between you and I, I doubt he could do any of this without your unwavering support. You’re his anchor, Sam.”

He stared down at his bottle, picking with his thumbnail at the edge of the label. He hoped she was right. As much as the thought humiliated him, all Sam wanted was for his need for Callen to be reciprocated in some way.

“My second choice was _My Funny Valentine_ ,” he confessed.

“Perfect!” Hetty replied with a flourish of her hand. “Classy, mellow with that low tempo, but still jazzy. It suits you very well.” She touched his arm. “And still gets the message across, to someone willing to hear it.”

Sam smiled despite himself. He had to admit she was quite remarkable. Even after packing quite a number of cognacs into that tiny frame, she retained the common sense and composure to step in and prevent him from making an ass of himself.

A loud scuffing noise came from the bank of speakers on the stage, and the two of them looked up to see Nate wrestling the microphone from the stand, swaying dangerously on his long legs as he did so. A moment later a pounding beat started to play, and Nate began to nod his head exaggeratedly to a tune Sam recognised thanks to its overexposure on late-‘90s MTV.

Hetty spoke gravely. “Mr Hanna, I think we may have an emergency on our hands.”

“Not Backstreet Boys,” Sam said. “For the love of God, why didn’t they stop him?” He straightened, picked up their drinks from the bar, and gestured with a nod of his head towards the booth.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and teach these people a little class.”

“Excellent. Let’s get you signed up.” She placed one hand on Sam’s proffered arm and climbed down from the stool. “As for me,” she said with relish, “I’m starting to feel a little Bon Jovi coming on.”


End file.
